Body on the Bayou (2 page)

It took a while to ratchet down Vanessa’s hysteria, but once she stopped crying, she refused to say anything else about her cousin. Ione sent the pregnant guide home to rest, and Maggie and Gaynell divvied up her tour groups.

“I wonder why she went off like that,” Maggie said as the three women walked to their cars at the end of the day.

“Hormones?” Gaynell guessed.

Ione shook her head. “I popped out five kids, and believe me, I had some serious mood swings, but never a meltdown like that. There’s something else going on. Something with that Ginger cousin.”

Maggie nodded. “Still, whatever’s going on with Vanessa isn’t helped by the stress she’s under right now. If I ever get pregnant, it better not be under such crazy circumstances.”

“It won’t be, because you’re not her,” Gaynell said. “And you won’t be marrying Rufus Durand.”

“Oh God, no.” Maggie made a face and laughed.

The women got into their cars, and Gaynell and Ione drove off. Maggie sat for a moment behind the wheel of the ’64 Falcon convertible she’d inherited from her late grandfather, Papa Doucet. Vanessa’s anguish, so raw and real—and so unexpected from the woman nicknamed the “Loch Nessa Monster” by her coworkers—had unsettled her. Maggie felt worn out by the day. She shook herself to get her blood moving and then, despite the chill of a late-autumn day, put down the top of the car and peeled out of the parking lot, headed for home.

She drove fast, welcoming the cold slap of air the velocity created. She slowed down at the infamous town speed trap, just in case the Pelican Police Department was out trolling for tourists or Crozats to ticket. Once out of the danger zone, Maggie picked up speed again and quickly reached the family homestead. The sight of Crozat Plantation always rejuvenated her. Square columns encircled the elegant main house, which gleamed a crisp white. The first floor featured a wide, welcoming veranda; the second, a balcony that encircled the home. Maggie parked in the family’s gravel lot at the far end of the property and then strolled past the garçonnière and carriage house, outbuildings that had been transformed into guest lodging. She pulled open the back door of the main house and walked down a wide hallway that led straight to the large front entrance. When both doors were open, it allowed for a lovely cross-breeze to sweep through, even on a hot Louisiana summer day. Her ancestors were no dummies when it came to ventilation.

She peeked into the dining room and back parlor but didn’t see any sign of her parents. She found Grand-mère Crozat in the front parlor, seated on a dark-blue, velvet, nineteenth-century wingback chair. Gopher, the family basset hound, snored at her feet. Gran’, dressed in gray wool slacks and a silk blouse a discreet shade lighter, looked elegant and immaculate as always, and not even close to her eighty-two years. She stared at a gold watch that she held in her right hand. Like almost everything at the plantation, it had been handed down through generations of Crozats. A Sazerac cocktail sat in a highball glass on the side table next to her. “And . . . it’s five o’clock,” Gran’ said. She snapped the watch shut and put it down, then picked up the Sazerac and took a sip.

“Since when do you wait?” Maggie teased.

“Oooh snap, as the kids say. Now I won’t make you your own cocktail.”

“I’m good with a club soda.”

Maggie went behind the bar tucked in a corner of the room and pulled a can out of a small refrigerator. She popped the top and chugged its contents. Gran’ shook her head. “There are days I do wish you’d gone to Newcomb College instead of art school. You might have picked up a bit of etiquette.”

“Sure, if I’d gone there in the nineteen-fifties, like you did.” Maggie kissed her grandmother on the top of her head and sat down on the wingback chair next to her. “Where are Mom and Dad?”

“Out on a power walk,” Gran’ said, taking another sip of her drink. Ninette Doucet Crozat, Maggie’s mother, had survived a bout with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma in her twenties. A recent health scare had inspired her to launch a fundraiser for lymphoma research, the Yes We PeliCAN! 10K Walk for the Cure. She trained for it by walking every day with family or friends. Maggie joined her whenever she could.

“Chère, are you home?” Maggie heard her father call.

“In the office,” she called back.

Ninette and Thibault “Tug” Crozat, both in workout attire, strode in, bringing a whiff of perspiration with them. The couple held hands; petite Ninette subtly elevated her arm so that her husband, taller by more than a foot, wouldn’t have to compensate for the height difference by bending toward her.

“We worked up an appetite,” Ninette said. “I’m going to get dinner going.”

“We got another booking for the week before Christmas,” Gran’ told Tug. “I think we’ll be sold out for the holidays.”

“Excellent,” he said. “We will have some guests this week, but they’re all freebies.”

Maggie and Gran’ exchanged a puzzled look. This was a surprise to both of them.

“Vanessa Fleer called and asked if we might have room for a few of her wedding guests,” Ninette explained. “Her cousin Ginger’s group.”

“What?” Maggie exclaimed. “Are you serious?”

“Of course. Why, what’s the problem?”

“I don’t know, she wouldn’t tell us. But there is one.” Maggie detailed Vanessa’s unhappy reaction to the news that her cousin would be attending the wedding. “I can’t believe that on top of a million duties she dumped on me, now she’s dumping a relative she obviously can’t stand on my family. And for
free
?”

“Charging her guests felt in bad taste. I told her it was a wedding present.”

“I’m already making them a wedding present, Mama. I’m painting their portrait. If Vanessa lives that long. I swear, I may kill her before I finish it.”

“Watch your words, dear,” Gran’ said. “I’m guessing a cocktail is now in order.”

“Not right now. I have to drive over to Bon Bon. But trust me, I’ll be hitting the bottle as soon as I get back.”

Maggie marched out of the main house to the small shotgun house that she shared with her grandmother. Gopher tagged along with her. “I love them, I truly do,” she complained to the hound as she opened the creaky wooden door and followed the dog inside. “But honestly, sometimes I think my parents are so nice, it’s dangerous.” Gopher, distracted by some muffin crumbs he discovered on the floor, didn’t respond.

Maggie went into her bedroom, pulled off her clothes, and threw them into the bathroom hamper. She took a quick shower and slipped into faded brown ankle boots, jeans, and a caramel sweater that brought out the orange in her hazel eyes. She grabbed a leather jacket and headed out of the house to her car.

As the sun began its twilight descent over the Mississippi River, Maggie drove down a two-lane road into the historic center of Pelican. The town featured a village green surrounded by centuries-old brick buildings sporting lacy iron balconies. One of them housed two quaint shops, Bon Bon Sweets and Fais Dough Dough Patisserie. Both were owned by her cousin, Lia Tienne. Maggie was thrilled when Lia, widowed young, found love again with a Crozat guest—Kyle Bruner, who’d lost his wife in a tragic accident. Some Pelicaners believed in magic; some didn’t. But pretty much all agreed that Fate had a hand in uniting those two grieving souls.

Maggie parked behind the shops and hopped out of the Falcon. She opened the car’s trunk, pulled out a small box, and walked into Bon Bon. The shop smelled of chocolate and salted caramel, a scent so delicious that Maggie felt she could bite into it. The walls boasted a display of paintings, vibrant contemporary renderings that celebrated Cajun Country’s lush landscape and rich architecture. Small, discreet signs next to each painting indicated its name, price, and the artist. All were by Magnolia Marie Crozat—Maggie.

Lia and Kyle were behind the counter, huddled over what Maggie saw were interior design renderings for their new home. Kyle, a wealthy software engineer, had bought the Durand family homestead—Grove Hall. The couple planned to restore the run-down plantation, which suffered from years of neglect by Rufus Durand, who had enjoyed taunting concerned citizens like the Crozats with the plantation’s dilapidated condition.

“Hi, sweetie,” Lia greeted her cousin. “Tell me you brought souvenir thimbles and spoons.”

“Yes, I surrendered to kitsch.” Maggie, who’d channeled her artistry into a line of souvenirs, reached into the box and pulled out a thimble decorated with a colorful illustration of Doucet. “I’ve made them for ten of the local plantations. Same with the spoons. They may be cheesy, but they could also be big sellers.”

“Exactly,” Lia enthused. “Visitors can collect them.” Lia opened the cash register and took out a check that she handed to Maggie. “Here’s the money for your mugs and mouse pads. I’m also putting together a box of candy for the family.”

“Yum! Sample, please.” Lia tossed a chocolate rum truffle to her cousin. Maggie caught the truffle, popped it her mouth, and savored the marriage of tangy liquor and rich, bittersweet ganache. As she chewed on the sweet treat, she unpacked her box of souvenirs and began setting them out, moving them here or there to create a more interesting display.

“Maggie, what do you think of these drawings?” Kyle brought over printouts of the future Grove Hall dining and living room. Each room was so stuffed with antique furniture and knickknacks that they seemed more museum than home to Maggie.

“Truthfully? They’re a little . . . overdone.”

“We think so too.” Kyle frowned.

“I can design a store, but I can’t seem to design a house,” Lia said, shaking her head as she filled a box with an assortment of homemade chocolates, pralines, and pastel bonbons.

“Don’t worry about it,” Maggie reassured them. “Anything you do will be a
huge
improvement over how that idiot Rufus left the place.”

“Speaking of idiots . . .” Kyle muttered as he motioned to the door. The bell above it tinkled as rotund Rufus Durand walked into the shop. Maggie’s pulse quickened when she saw that he was followed by his cousin and polar opposite, the tall, rangy Detective Bo Durand. Bo shot Maggie and the others a smile as Rufus went straight to the case of homemade candy.

“Gimme four chewy pecan pralines and a quarter pound of dark chocolate turtles,” Rufus barked at Lia.

“Stress eating again, Rufus?” Maggie said as innocently as she could. She heard Bo turn a laugh into a cough.

“Anybody would if they had to deal with what I gotta,” Ru grumbled. He chomped down on a coconut patty that Lia handed him as a lagniappe, a little something extra. “Van’s all up in me with this dang wedding, and his royal-pain-in-my-keister, Mayor Beaufils, won’t tell me when I get to go back to work.” Ru was on leave from his job after getting into a scuffle with said mayor over a parking space. A Durand would never be given the boot from a town job, given their history in the area, but Maggie was happy to see Beaufils taking advantage of an opportunity to at least make the pugnacious police chief sweat.

“Rufus, I need to tell you something.” Maggie relayed Vanessa’s reaction to Ginger’s RSVP. “And I know this won’t make you happy, but Vanessa called my mother to see if Ginger and her group could stay with us.”

“She did, huh?” Maggie was surprised to pick up a hint of glee in Rufus’s voice. “And what did your mother say?”

“That they could stay. For free.”

Rufus let out a roar of laughter so loud that it startled the others. “Oh, that is beautiful. Bee-you-tee-ful. Magnolia Crozat, you have made my day. That’s exactly who I woulda wished on you.” Lia handed Rufus a small bag. “I’ll assume this is a small, free token of your appreciation for law enforcement.”

“You’re on leave, Rufus.”

“Trust me, clock’s ticking on that. I would not get too attached to my substitute.” Rufus’s phone made the sound of screeching brakes, and he checked it. “Text from Van. I gotta go with her to the lady doctor.” He motioned to Bo. “Come on, I’ll drop you at headquarters.”

“You go ahead. I’ll walk back,” Bo said. “I want to get some treats for Xander. I have him tonight.”

“Alrighty.
A bientôt,
Maggie. Get a good night’s sleep. You’ll need all your wits about you when Ginger shows up.” Rufus guffawed again, then left the store with his hand in the bag of candy.

“Sorry about that,” Bo said.

“It’s okay,” Maggie replied. “Ru was Ru long before you moved here.”

Bo gave a slight nod and turned his attention to the candy display. “I’ll take half a pound of the milk honeycomb, and if you don’t mind—”

“I’ll make sure the pieces don’t touch.” Lia and the others were sensitive to the fact that Bo’s young son was on the
autism spectrum. She wrapped up the candy and handed it to Bo. “On the house.” He started to protest, but Lia cut him off. “It’s either free or leave it be.”

“Well . . . thanks.” Bo gave Lia a grateful smile and headed out of the store. Maggie stared after him a moment, then shook it off and finished arranging her souvenirs. She exchanged good-byes with Lia and Kyle, took the box of candy Lia had assembled for the Crozats, and walked out of the sweet shop to her car. As she dug through her purse for her keys, she went over every detail of what she knew about Vanessa’s cousin, which was only Vanessa and Ru’s attitude toward her. That alone made her fear what might be in store for the Crozats if the woman stayed with them.

“Dang,” Maggie muttered. She had yet to excavate her keys from the deep recesses of her purse, and the task was made harder by the darkness that enveloped the parking lot. The safety light had burned out. Maggie figured she better tell Lia.

She turned toward Bon Bon. But before she could take a step toward the store, a hand reached out of the pitch black and grabbed her.

Maggie froze. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out.

“I scared you,” a male voice said. “Sorry.”

Maggie recognized the hint of Texas in the man’s Louisiana accent. Her assailant was Shreveport native Bo Durand. “I think my heart stopped,” she said, placing a hand on her still-pounding chest. “I now know that in moments of extreme panic, I can’t scream. Or move.”

“Again, sorry. I thought you saw me. Let me make it up to you.”

Bo pulled Maggie to him and kissed her. Her chest continued to pound—but this time for the right reasons.

The two broke apart. “Better?” Bo asked.

“Way better.”

“I waited until Rufus was gone. But I had to see you.”

Maggie leaned against Bo, resting her head on the smooth leather of his jacket. “I’m glad.”

“I can’t stand sneaking around like this.”

“Come on.” Maggie grinned. “Don’t you find it a little sexy?”

“Okay, maybe a little,” he admitted. “But I’m ready for it to be over. I’m hoping marriage mellows Doofus and he’ll let go of his dumb-ass grudge against your family.”

“We’ll have to see how this marriage goes,” Maggie said. “If it ends in divorce like his other two, we’ll be in worse shape.”

“Don’t worry—I’m going to use my status as best man to access his good side.”

“He has one?” Maggie wasn’t being sarcastic. She truly wondered.

“He did when we were kids. It’s buried pretty deep, but I’m going to apply a little emotional archaeology to dig it out.”

“‘Emotional archaeology.’ Nice. I’m impressed.”

“After Whitney and I divorced, I got pretty depressed. My captain talked me into getting help. That’s the phrase my therapist used when he was trying to get me in touch with my feelings.”

“And how are those feelings doing?” Maggie teased.

“Pretty great right now.” Bo kissed Maggie again. “And I’ve got some good news. Whitney’s husband Zach got a three-month transfer to Saudi Arabia, so she’s relocating here while he’s gone. That means I can cut out the drive back and forth to Lake Charles to get Xander, which’ll give you and me way more time together.”

“That’s great. When is it happening?”

“Soon, but unfortunately, not tonight.” Bo reluctantly pulled away. “I gotta go get him now. The I-10’s calling.”

“Okay. Text me a good time to come by and give him his lesson.” Maggie had discovered that seven-year-old Xander, despite his challenges or because of them, was a preternaturally brilliant artist. Helping to nurture and protect the young boy’s talent was one of the great joys of her return to Pelican.

After a final kiss, Maggie watched as Bo disappeared back into the night. The two first met when Rufus hired his cousin to replace a retiring detective, and they’d grown close during the investigation of three guests’ deaths at Crozat B and B. By the end of the case, friendship had turned to romance, but the couple kept their three-month relationship clandestine so as not to poke the bear that was Rufus Durand. Both knew that relative or not, Rufus wouldn’t hesitate to fire Bo for “cavorting with the enemy,” an accusation he’d once flung at them. He also threatened to jail Maggie when she pointed out that the correct term was “
consorting
with the enemy.”

Maggie forced herself to focus. She resumed fishing through her purse for her keys, then gave up and walked back into Bon Bon to see if she’d left them in the shop. Lia saw her and held out a small, wax paper bag. “I knew you’d be back for a few pralines.”

“I’ll take them, but what I really need are my car keys,” Maggie said, perusing the store shelves. “Ah,” she cried triumphantly as she pulled the keys out of one of her souvenir mugs. “Problem solved.”

Maggie’s phone pinged, signaling a text. “Ugh. Another list of chores from Vanessa.”

“I’ve been meaning to call her. I’m worried that being a bridesmaid will take me away from the shop too much, and I don’t think I can—”

“No!” Maggie held up a hand to her cousin. “If I’m stuck in this crazy wedding party, so are you. No way are you coming up with some lame excuse to get out of it.”

“It’s not
so
lame,” Lia said sheepishly. “But you’re right. It wouldn’t be fair to Vanessa.”

“Forget her; it wouldn’t be fair to
me.
I can’t go through this nightmare without the support and help of my loved ones.” Maggie’s phone pinged again and she groaned. “God help me.” She looked down at her phone and read the message out loud. “‘BTW, watch Ginger on stairs.’ What does that even mean? I’m very nervous about this woman staying with us. The fact that Rufus is happy about it can’t be good.”

“Who’s Ginger?”

Maggie turned and found herself face to face with Little Earlie Waddell, whose family owned the
Pelican Penny Clipper
, a free community periodical. Little Earlie was a china doll of a man, with a slight build and delicate features. He’d recently graduated college on the five-year plan with a degree in journalism and carried around a laminated copy of his diploma that he’d had reduced to the size of a credit card. His late father, Big Earlie, had been happy keeping the
Penny Clipper
a collection of ads and paid-for puff pieces. But Little Earlie’s goal was to turn it into an actual newspaper, albeit a trashy one, much to the annoyance of the town. Maggie
had once witnessed the Pelican City Council break into a run when they saw Little Earlie coming toward them with his reporter’s notebook.

“Oh hey, Earlie,” Maggie said. “I didn’t hear you come in.” This was no surprise. Little Earlie had developed an ability to slink around on cat feet, the better to make himself invisible and eavesdrop on conversations that he could turn into gossipy banner headlines.

“Who’s Ginger?” Earlie repeated.

“A friend,” Maggie said, trying to be as vague as possible. But the avaricious look on Earlie’s face told her she’d have to provide more information if she wanted to keep the newshound from tracking the scent of a story. “A friend of Vanessa’s. A cousin actually. She’s a wedding guest who’ll be staying with us. It’s no big deal.”

“Then why do you have a bad feeling about it?” Little Earlie persisted.

“Because . . . I’m a Pelicaner,” Maggie said, making her tone light. “That’s what we do, have feelings and see signs in everything, right?”

While Maggie would never claim to have the second sight that some town residents were thought to possess, one thing she did see was that Little Earlie wasn’t buying her explanation. But before he could press her with another question, Lia came to her rescue. “Little Earlie, we made a fresh batch of Coconut Haystacks this morning,” she said, holding one out to him. “Your favorite. First one’s on the house.”

Little Earlie turned his attention toward the treat, and Maggie grabbed the chance to leave, blowing a grateful kiss to her cousin on her way out the door.

*

When Maggie returned to Crozat, she noticed two cars parked in front of the manor house. One was a dusty, nondescript, older-model hybrid sedan; the other, a late-model, white Mercedes SUV. She had no idea who owned the former but a pretty good one about whom the latter belonged to. She guessed that the infamous cousin Ginger had arrived. Maggie parked in the family lot and hurried inside.

She found Gran’ in the front parlor holding court with three visitors. Each sipped from a goblet filled with a generous pour of red wine. The small group included a man in his late twenties with the vapid, blond good looks of a dating reality show contestant and a thin woman around thirty-five who had caved to the recent unflattering trend of dyed violet-grey hair. But the standout of the trio was the woman paying rapt attention to whatever tale Gran’ was telling. Her platinum bob glimmered in the fire’s light, and she had the kind of fine bone structure that made it difficult to define her age. She wore a winter-white cashmere turtleneck and matching nubby silk pants and, with her slim frame, resembled a delicate cloud.

“Maggie, dear, there you are,” Gran’ said. “Come meet our guests. This is Vanessa’s cousin, Ginger Fleer-Starke,” she said, indicating the cloudlike woman. “And her coworkers Trent and Bibi.” Maggie exchanged curt greetings with
the three. “Ginger is a Louisiana Fleer. She grew up in Ville de Blanc, just up the road.”

Where there are plenty of B and Bs, but none that could be suckered into offering a free stay
, Maggie thought grimly.

“I know we weren’t expected until later in the week,” Ginger said in a voice that was low and melodious. “I’m moving my interior design business from Houston to Baton Rouge, so this gave us the perfect opportunity to do some work on the new location.”

Maggie did the math in her head, considering what the freeloading threesome’s week-long stay would cost her family. “It is a bit longer than we’d anticipated,” she said as diplomatically as possible while she steamed inside.

“I know,” Ginger said. “It was very generous of you to offer us a complimentary stay, but I insist on paying for myself and my employees.”

Maggie was speechless for a moment. This was not what she expected. “Oh. Maybe you could pay until the wedding—”

Ginger shook her head, and the scent of orange blossoms wafted toward Maggie. “I’ll pay for the entire stay. No argument, please.”

“You won’t get one,” Maggie said, surprised and relieved that Ginger was being so reasonable. The designer was hardly a she-devil, despite the intimations of Vanessa and Rufus. Maggie was starting to wonder if pregnancy hormones had made the bride-and-mother-to-be paranoid.

Ninette stuck her head into the room. “Dinner’s ready.”

Maggie’s positive impression of Ginger grew during the dinner that Ninette laid out. Their recent guests from
Japan had requested an all-American turkey dinner for the last night of their visit, and Ninette had veered from her famed Cajun cooking to devise a delicious recipe for the leftovers that wrapped them all in crescent roll dough. “Turkey-dinner-in-a-braid,” as Ninette called it, wasn’t the sort of authentic Louisiana cuisine that the family usually served to guests, and Maggie prepared herself for complaints. But Ginger raved about the dish. She also entertained the Crozats with anecdotes about the wacky clients she’d dealt with in her interior design business while Bibi sat thin-lipped and silent and Trent spent most of his time checking his phone. When the group said their good-nights after dinner, Ginger hugged Maggie, telling her, “I feel like I’ve known you forever.”

“I feel the same way,” Maggie responded, surprised at how true the statement felt.

Ginger had requested that she and her assistant Trent room in proximity to each other and have a living area from which to conduct business. Tug led Ginger and Trent off to their rooms in the carriage house. Bibi, who described herself sourly as “the world’s oldest intern,” was assigned a room in the garçonnière.

Maggie offered to lead Bibi to her lodgings. As the two walked, Maggie noted that everything about Bibi seemed tight, from the skin that stretched over her almost-anorexic arms to her thin, pursed lips. “It sounds like your business is challenging, but fun,” Maggie said in an attempt to break the ice.

“I wouldn’t know about the fun part,” Bibi said with a grimace.

Not sure how to respond, Maggie went with “Oh.”

“I was an accountant for ten years,” Bibi said, “but I’d always wanted to be an interior designer. I took classes at night and got my certificate, but it was hard finding a job. When Ginger offered me the internship, I grabbed it. I figured I’d live off my savings while I trained, and she promised me a job within three months. I’ve been with her a year. And I’m still an intern.”

“Ah,” was Maggie’s choice of generic comment this time.

“Ginger started off staging houses to sell, which wasn’t even a career until TV invented it. Then she started doing decorating and then she got her real estate license. So now she can decorate, stage, and sell houses.”

“That’s very entrepreneurial,” Maggie said, impressed by Ginger’s business savvy.

“‘From Starke to Finish.’ That’s her advertising slogan.”

“It’s a good one.”

“Thank you. I came up with it. For free, of course.” Bibi gave a mirthless laugh as Maggie opened the door to her room. The intern took her suitcase from Maggie, nodded good-night, went inside, and closed the door behind her.

Maggie stood there, mulling over Bibi’s bitter words. Ginger seemed smart, generous, friendly—nothing at all like what Maggie expected. Either Bibi had a serious attitude problem or Maggie was missing something. She shuddered, despite the unseasonably warm evening.

*

Maggie slept fitfully. She dreamt that she had fallen off a boat into the Atchafalaya Swamp, and when she screamed for help, no one came. She began to drown, and as she gasped for air, she woke up with a start.

“Hmm,” Gran’ said when Maggie shared her dream that morning as the two ate a breakfast of soft-boiled eggs and beignets. “A drowning dream symbolizes a loss of property—or life. You might want to have Helene Brevelle make you a gris-gris bag for success and health when she returns to town.” Many Pelican residents put as much stock in local spiritualists as they did in priests and preachers. Helene Brevelle, the town voodoo priestess, was currently on a cruise to Mexico—paid for by gris-gris bag orders from college girls looking for some mojo that might help them land dates to their sorority formals.

“If I have the dream again, I’ll call Helene.” Maggie paused. “I had the shudders last night.”

“Oh dear,” Gran’ said. Pretty much everyone in Pelican viewed the shudders, a sudden physical reaction that seemed to come from nowhere, as a psychic premonition.

“I know,” Maggie said. “It’s a sign. I just wish I could figure out what’s bothering me. It’s not about the whole maid of honor thing. That’s just aggravating. It’s something else, but I don’t know what.”

Gran’ nodded. “Listen to your instincts, chère. You’ll pinpoint what’s troubling you eventually.”

As soon as Maggie and Gran’ finished breakfast, Maggie changed out of her sleep tee into her painting clothes and
left the shotgun for the old plantation schoolhouse that she’d turned into an artist’s studio. Vanessa had promised to drag Rufus over so that Maggie could work on her portrait of the couple, and they were due shortly. As she walked down the dirt path that ran through the plantation grounds, she almost bumped into Ginger, who was out for a morning jog.